


This Is Not A Drill

by JaeNunyah



Category: Pink Floyd, The Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-22 08:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22646953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaeNunyah/pseuds/JaeNunyah
Summary: Pimping for both new The Who album and Waters' upcoming North America Tour, so thought I'd try them current-age.
Kudos: 13





	1. Detour

Two Rogers regard one another across the threshold, one tautly alert and still sheathed in traces of cold winter air, the other drowsily tousled and still wrapped in warmth of shared slumber. Waters unbuttons his heavy leather coat as Daltrey pulls fluffy hotel-issue robe closer around him and steps aside to permit entry. Neither speaks, but both are thinking the exact same thing.

[Oh, so THIS is still going on?]

"That was fast." Pete raises his voice to carry into suite's sitting room as he shuts off his phone and sets aside barely-touched Room Service tray. "You didn't reply to my last text."

[Didn't need to. Security got out of my way as swiftly and sliently as did Monkey, so I was obviously expected.] Waters now answers with a curt question. "Are you getting up?"

"No." Pete responds in clipped kind, graciously eschewing opportunity for dirty dig in favor of subtle snipe. "Come in here. Both of you."

Again, mismatched set of Rogers share identical thought [Bastard.] but both obey, Waters ushering Monkey into the bedchamber ahead of him with a mock-courtly half-bow and an 'after you' gesture. Tandem gazes fix upon Pete, reclining against mountain of pillows, stretched out atop crumpled comforter wearing white silk pajamas evoking his boiler-suits of yore, before attention diverges. Waters strides to sit down in bedside chair while Daltrey turns away and busies himself with repacking small overnight bag, draping reclaimed clothing over one arm and sweeping wordlessly back into the outer room to dress.

"It's good to see you." Pete's words are sincere, although undercut with slight smirk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Waters reciprocates. "Do I need a reason other than that I've missed you, and was in the neighborhood?"

"No, but I bet you have one."

[Won't discuss it in present company.] "Hope I didn't interrupt anything." Waters scans the room for detritus of debauchery, sniffing for spirits or sex, but the only empty bottles he spies were of water and all he can smell is seductively meaty aroma wafting from the tray between them.

"Breakfast is the least of things I'd set aside for you. Besides..." Pete ruefully muses "...it seems I overestimated my appetite. Happens often, these days." He lifts cover from dish and offers "Partake of piggy parts?"

Waters leans in to snag a slice of bacon and eats it slowly, salty rumination between his molars and his ears. [Monkey and I might not agree on much, but we know Pete does whatever he wants and that we're lucky he wants us. Thankfully, we're also in agreement he WON'T get us at the same time.]

[Bloody perverts. I would NEVER...not even if they begged. Whatever kinky angle this is, I'm leaving before they try to rope me in.] Shaking his head in attempt to dissipate unwanted images wrought within it, Daltrey lets himself out, shutting the door sharply behind, crating Big Dogs inside together.

"Well, that wasn't QUITE a slam. He didn't even say goodbye." Pete sighs, scolding "Really, now, this is fucking ridiculous. Downright childish. I don't believe you two have said more than a hundred words to each other in half a century."

"Don't lecture ME." Roger coolly commands, helping himself to a second slice. "Twenty-seven of those words were a calculated, if clumsy, attempt to break us up."

"I can't believe you STILL hold a grudge over that." [But I CAN believe you counted the words.]

"He doesn't need to be forgiven...so he's not." is Waters' breezy dismissal "He's the one who hates MY guts..." [My balls, more like.] "...and carries the grudge. I give not shit one about him at all, but if HE were to speak to ME, I wouldn't refuse to respond. He doesn't WANT to talk to me, therefore I'm kindly obliging."

"What would you say to him if you WERE somehow..." Pete raises an eyebrow "...forced into conversation?"

"I'd tell him I like the new album."

"You haven't told ME that." Pete pouts prankishly "Didn't even know you've heard it."

"Couldn't think up a name? Whatever happened to SEZ WHO or WHO CARES? That could've been cute, you two on the cover dressed as doctor and nurse...which is which, though?" Roger does not wait for an answer before seizing his turn to lecture. "Self-titled records are confusing...and lazy. They ALWAYS wind up being called something else if they're any good, and forgotten double-quick if they're not."

"So, what are you calling this one?"

"DETOUR."

"Maybe that'll catch on." Pete allows, fishing "What's your favorite track?"

Waters softens his tone to gently flatter. "You have to ask? Your song, of course."

Pete proclaims airily "They're all my songs."

"I know that, and YOU know I meant the one you chose to sing." Roger's rejoinder is tinged with concern, which Pete readily discerns.

[He thinks "I might be finally dying.", does he? Let's see if he'll say so.] "What was it about "I'll Be Back" that brought you back to me today?"

"Is it warning or whining?" Roger tersely entreats.

"I'm truly touched you've come to inquire after my health. Did it sound THAT much like a swan song that you were summoned to my literal bedside?" 

"Please..." neither this word nor the next ones come easily to Roger, but he can't bear typical teasing torment "...I love you. Don't jerk me around. Are you sick?"

"That debate rages on." Pete tenderly relents, moved by rare declaration. "Nothing terrible or terminal, but..." he stoically acknowledges "...we're fucking OLD, and it might be time to admit our best shows are behind us."

"Sod that for a lark." [He's fine, thank God...not that there's a God.] Roger has learned nothing banishes Pete's periodic self-pity better than an interesting challenge, which brings him neatly to the real reason for his visit. "I'm here to ask if you'll come out with me."

"Of the closet?" Pete pontificates, only slightly in jest "Hmmm. At this point in times and trends, I suppose that could be a big attraction...benefit BOTH our careers."

"On the road." [Kiss him onstage at Madison Square Garden...What a publicity explosion!] "I'll be storming North America this summer, and will pay whatever you want if you'd do me the honor of a few dates."

"Why, my love, are you finally asking me out on a date?" Pete laughs "You know I can't play 'Comfortably Numb'."

"I keep a kennel of pups who CAN, but I might not even do the damn thing this tour." Roger rolls his eyes.

"They'll riot if you don't."

"Let 'em." Roger acidly quips, stripping off his coat and dropping it into newly vacted chair as he stands "MY fans are tough enough not to get trampled."

"That was low." Pete flicks frost, transferring twice-abandoned breakfast tray to nearby nightstand, clearing the matress between them.

"Bringing myself down to your level." Roger proceeds to do just that, slipping into Pete's bed and his immediately intense embrace.

The man in white entwines with the one in black as Pete delves Roger's expression to ask "Why do you want me...in your show? How much of this is about pissing off...or ON Dave?" [I KNOW he still harbors hard feelings about THAT.]

['None' would be a lie...] "I guess it might stick in his craw if we do some WHITE CITY tracks. I've always wanted to cover 'Face The Face' and 'Give Blood'."

"Can you PLAY 'Give Blood'?" Pete scoffs, running callused fingers through Roger's silver strands.

"The bass."

"Learn the guitar, and I'll let you cover it."

Roger looks into Pete's open eyes before kissing them closed, pronouncing "As you wish.", sliding hands along white silk encasing hot flesh. "We saw the states together fifty years ago...played on the same stages but never at the same time. Will you see them together with me now?"

"I couldn't. " Pete demurrs contrarily "Wouldn't dream of upstaging you at your own show."

Roger laughs at this, that dirty-old-man cackle which had struck Pete as wise beyond his years, years ago, but into which he's sublimely grown. "The day when you might have managed that has come and gone. You just said 'it might be time to admit'. MY showmanship swells, while yours ebbs. You keep siphoning off LIFEHOUSE to feed other projects, but MY master message is only just gaining traction. We want the same thing, you know, but you've never toured by yourself."

"YOU didn't seem to mind the lackluster response when you did." Lips burning a trail across Roger's throat, Pete murmurs "They don't WANT our solo stuff."

"They DO." Roger insists "Much fan reaction to my US+THEM tour complained there was no AMUSED TO DEATH. I want your songs, too, and you there to sing them. Always do 'Dogs', but maybe insted of 'Pigs' we give them 'I Am An Animal'. Will you come play piano for me...and for the world?"

Pete pulls him closer, imagining their forms might well resemble yin-yang symbol. [Which is which, though? Easy, offhand answer isn't quite accurate.] "You want me for piano?" 

"Yes. You hardly ever touch the black and the white on tour, and neither do I, although that's where we both truly live." Unbuttoning Pete's pajama top, Roger slips hand inside to slide silk off shoulder, ardently avowing "You can pick the dates AND the songs, if you'll just come out with me."

"You said you'd pay whatever I want." Pete alights with mercenary gleam, arching under Roger's masterful touch "I won't just ask for money."

"I'm aware of that." Roger accepts "I'll pay...anything....for the pleasure of having you there to collect." He pauses to interject "Draw the line at Monkey. I know he's your security blanket, so pack him along as groupie if you must, but I will NOT suffer him on my stage."

Pete's hand slides down from Roger's head to caress curve of spine, promising only "I'll think about it."

"I know you will." Roger gasps as twin erections grind against one another. "What I don't know is what you'll DO about it."


	2. Crazy Diamond In Crazy Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't help but imagine where they are right now, during pandemic perplexity.

"I just smashed my television." is snarled down the line before Pete offers any salutation after hitting 'Accept Call' and bringing phone to his ear.

"What was playing?" he archly inquires, adding "With what?"

"What the fuck do you THINK?" answers both "Bare hands and booted feet."

"Have you been tested? We're both in high risk group, doncha know."

"Have NOT, and WON'T submit." Nobody but his erstwhile lover could possibly understand, and Roger hopes he does "This shiT is reaching a level of mass stupidity, and I'm feeling a level of weird about it only you can grok."

"Violent frustration?" Pete can only imagine, and excitedly envisions...

"YES." Roger admits "I've an urge to destroy an entire room, maybe even a whole HOUSE."

Pete looks around, calculating value of accoutrements, weighing against potential thrill. "Come on, then. You KNOW I'd love to see you do it."

"Are you alone?" 

"No, but I can be by the time you get here."

"If you're NOT, I won't stay."

"Think I don't know that by now?"

"What AYE don't know is whether jackbooted thugs might try to keep us apart." Roger barks "MY security's getting flaky. How's YOURS holding up?"

"My home remains my castle." proclaims Pete "I promise you needn't submit to probe." he chuckles wryly "We're so old any sleep could be our last, anyway. I'm not scared of the plague."

"Me neither." Roger agrees "But I'm fucking TERRIFIED at infringement upon civil liberties. Martial Law could be declared any day, then God help us all..." he echoes bitter laugh "Not that there's a God."

"There are LOTS of Gods, my love, and mayhap some of them have been swayed enough to spare us as shining examples." Pete sends theological opinion along with earnest invitation. "Please come. I need your hunger just as you need mine."

Roger cannot resist. "I'm on my way."

*****

"There's fucking CDC outside your gate!"

"I know." Pete sighs "I can't stop them monitoring who comes and goes, but they didn't touch you, did they?"

"They TRIED!"

"How hard?" [Will you be after I let you vent vile venom?]

Roger allows "Not very."

"This is killing you, isn't it?"

"YES! It's the EXACT xenophobic paranoia I've SEEN coming, and have been fucking preaching against!"

"Yeah, but nobody ever listens to you, do they?"

"Oh, go fuck yourself." snaps Roger "Wanna see me trash this room?"

"Very much." Pete admits, thrilling to observe long fingers snapping open and closed in frustrated fury, recollecting a time, decades ago, when he'd witnessed spectacular smashing of stolen guitar. "Wait just a minute." Standing to retrieve favorite Gibson acoustic from rack, he cradles it with mock tenderness to his chest before retaking his seat in overstuffed armchair. "All right. The chair in which I sit and the instrument in my arms, and my own proud pate, of course, are sacrosanct. Otherwise, have at it."

The most solid weapon within Roger's reach is a Fender Telecaster, and he snatches it up in smoothly sweeping arc to shatter ceramic base of lamp before bringing it down upon table beneath. "Particle-board piece of SHIT!" is growled as nightstand disintegrates. "I'm going to break the fucking WALLS down!" He swings the solidbody guitar against wainscoting, gratified that it smashes right through between studs.

Screaming "Cancel my tour, will you?" He swings around toward the wall where big-screen television blatantly broadcasts latest idiocy, and is astonished that 'hashtag alone together' bullshit persists even after savage strike smashes screen into skewed spiderweb, so, spying nearby powerbox, he pulverizes it until silence reigns. [God DAMN, Fender makes a quality product.]

Pete begins to play the guitar he holds, notes unspooling almost unconsciously from his fingers those of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline".

Eyeballing keyboard upon stand, Roger glares at it almost jealously, proclaiming "We fill it up with only two!" as telecaster sweeps up and crashes down to snap apart the black and the white more easily than he'd expected, slamming hard into carpeted floor as shards fall alongside, percussive repercussion reverberating harder onto his hands than he's imagined possible.

[snapcrack]

"Touching me, touching you." Pete sings, knowing more than fretboard has broken.

"Good times never seemed so good." Ruined instrument cast aside, Roger cannot acknowledge his physical pain, but shouts aloud his anguish nonetheless "I KNEW this was coming, and I've been TRYING to warn them."

"Come here." Pete gently insists, astonished Roger actually obeys, falling down on his knees to turn up anguished eyes uncharacteristically begging solace. "It IS a real disease. It's not a conspiracy, and it IS killing."

"I know..." Roger accepts "But SOMETHING has always swept around eliminating the weak and the sickly. We can label it better now and act like there's a way to stop it. This 'social distancing' Thing is just a put-on to validate the Fakebook generation who CAN'T deal with real relationships, and make it the new normal." Roger sounds as if he might sob "I spent my whole LIFE not letting idiots touch me, and now..."

Pete understands contrarian lament, reaching out to caress heavy head. "Now that you're told you MUSTN'T touch, you want to all the more."

"I do." is Roger's naked confession, laying one hand atop of Pete's. "I want the most intimate contact possible, and you're the only man who can give it to me."

[!!!] "You want to fuck me?" Gibson falls to the floor.

"No. I want YOU to fuck ME, but play some GOOD music first." He stands to pull Pete along toward the bed. "Thought you were cute, with not-so crazy Diamond?" Roger whips out his phone from coat pocket to to dictate "Alexa, play 'Brother Love's Travelling Salvation Show'." [Never considered myself a masochist, but newly-broken hand hurts so much yet erection has not diminished. The last time...and the first time...he penetrated me was more pain than pleasure, but now will be different. Shall provide needed distraction from looming Thought Control. I've only LET him do it before, but now I truly want him to take me...away from this madness...if just for a moment.]

"Hallelujah!" Pete exclaims as opening chords reverberate across blown brain and thickening prick.

Neither sings along but both revel in soulful soundtrack, Neil Diamond's gorgeous voice serenading unconventional union from the speaker of Roger's allegedly smart phone, narrating all-too-appropriate tale of throng caught up in groupthink while the men in the room continue to think for themselves and imagine to whom the other might be praying under commencement of deviant delight.


	3. Dirty Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prank calls in plague times...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Roger recently shared social-distanced split-screen performance of "Mother" with playmates from aborted tour, and I swear at the end of it, after fade-to-black, He says "Dave, I miss you, darling." Maybe that's NOT what He really said (or maybe there's another 'Dave' in His world), but here's where my mind went after several replays.

"Now it's YOUR turn." Pete gleefully gloats, glad he's finally satisfied rigid requirements Roger'd requested. "It's a dangerous game, playing at forfiets with you, but I believe MY next dare will blow your last one away."

"Bring it on, bitch." Roger smirks "We're living in Crazy Times, and I've got nothing to lose." [Masterful mind is disasterously deviant, though, so I'm sure whatever's wanted won't feel too good, since I just put him through hell for my own twisted thrill.]

[He's gonna hate this...maybe me for it...but bad enough to back down?] "When drawing up rules for current diversion, you stipulated 'Won't say anything I don't really mean.', prob'ly because you're paranoid about my devices capturing your voice saying something incriminating..."

"Just don't want to be caught in a lie." is grumpily muttered "Infiltration of spyware into private homes..."

"Thought you had nothing to lose?" Pete taunts without waiting for reply. "Don't worry, I won't ask you to compromise your icy, intransigent integrity. You're famous for telling the truth, and that's exactly what I wonder if you've got the balls to do this very minute."

"What are you getting at? Stop tickling and just give it to me." Roger quirks his lip while refreshing Pete's memory of recent events. "You know I can take it."

[!!!] "Stop trying to turn me on, then." Playfully pacing back and forth before padded piano bench where Roger sits facing away from the black and the white to regard his host, Pete delivers decadent dare. "I want you to ring up Pretty Pig and tell him how you REALLY feel about him. Voice-to-voice...right now."

"I don't know his private number." Roger demurs, mind racing beneath caustic quip "Besides, I've already called him a chump and a tosser and a moron...not to mention, a Pig...to his FACE."

"AYE have his number..." Pete suggestively waggles his phone before tapping into contacts "...and he'll answer if he thinks it's ME calling."

Roger rises to snatch shiny poptart from Pete's grasp before he can connect, gazing upon screen to guffaw down at display "That's fucking HILARIOUS! He's 'Dirty Dave' to you?"

"Well, he's not the only 'David' I know, and your mocking moniker sort of caught on...rubbed off, so to speak, like it did with Monkey." Noting that Roger has begun to scroll through other listed names and numbers, Pete slaps gleaming oblong out of prying fingers and watches it bounce onto the carpet. "BAD dog. No nosing into my little black book. Are you accepting the challenge or not?"

"You want to hear me cuss Dave out?" grins Roger, knowing he won't get away with feigned insouciance but bluffing boldly "Sure. Sucker. That's an EASY one." He holds left palm out with invitingly crooking fingers "Give it back, and he'll be sobbing into his slop after thirty-four words."

Pete bends to retrieve his phone but holds it teasingly out of reach. "No, I don't think so. Conditions of the dare are you have to say NICE things to him."

" 'You play a mean guitar.' That's about it." Roger sneers. "Really Want me to ring him just to say so? He'll answer 'No kidding.' then hang up. How will THAT float your boat?"

"Praise of stringsmithing is NOT the only generous...flattering, even...thing you could say to him, and we both know it. He doesn't, though, and watching you kiss THAT particular ass has long been on my list of yet-unfulfilled fantasies."

"What the fuck DO you expect me to say, then?"

"That's up to you, obviously, but you have to give him at least a HUNDRED heartfelt words. While I watch." Pete shares smarmy smile "Still think it's a cakewalk challenge?"

"He'll disconnect before I even manage twenty."

"If he hangs up, you're literally off the hook, but I somehow doubt he will. Are you ready..." finger poises above green 'Call' icon "...or are you chickening out?"

"Damn you..." [He's hoping for hesitance...awkwardness...well, he WON'T get it. I WILL speak from the heart, and what I have to say might rock his world more than Dave's.] "Okay, you're on." 

"It's YOU who's about to be on." Pete proclaims, tapping touchscreen to connect and enabling speaker function, rings filling room.

Roger finds himself praying there'll be no answer, and curses not-that-there's-a God when Pete's face lights up in malevolent glee as Dave's dulcet tones resonate, sounding pleased.

"Hey, there. Been a while. How you holding up?"

"Oh, you know how it is." Pete casually hedges before immediately insisting "Got somebody here who needs to talk to you.", pressing the phone into Roger's hand with intimately insinuating stroke of fingertip across wrist.

[I can do this...if just because he thinks I CAN'T.] "Hello, Mister Gilmour. 'Needs' was Pete's word, not mine, but it's nonetheless high time I paid you some compliments since the world has become such a madhouse that we might not ever have another chance to talk."

"What is this?" Dave's amplified voice blooms with suspicion "What do you want?"

"I Want To Tell You..." Roger quotes Beatles song with that title "...'my head is filled with things to say, but when you're near those words just seem to slip away.' "

"What-" Dave attempts again, but Roger cuts him off.

"Don't interrupt me, this is hard enough." Shooting baleful belligerence at Pete's merry mirth, Roger continues "You're a gifted guitarist, and every composition since we parted has cried out for your skill. Everybody else who's ever played my notes hasn't measured up to you, and I wish we could work together again. I've always envied your generosity and flexibility...your ease of making friends and knack for inspiring trust..." Roger takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to escape Pete's scrutiny "...and your good looks, too." [In for a penny, in for a pound. He won't EVER expect I'll admit to THIS (although I'm sure he still suspects), and Dave won't believe it, anyway.] "I confess, there was a latent...sexual...attraction which made me treat you cruelly. You were so pretty it hurt, corny as that sounds, and I was terrified of my own inadequacies. Dave... I miss you, darling."

[Whoa, wait, WHAT?] Pete watches Roger reopen his eyes, extant expression triumphant to behold his own naked shock.

"Prank calls in plague times." Dave chuckles "You're GOOD, though, buddy. I'll throw some work your way, too, if y'want. Now put Pete back on."

"I'm here." Pete pipes up [Bastard. He KNEW Dave wouldn't buy it.] "And so is Roger. Really. We're quarantining together. This was meant to be joke on HIM, not on you."

"I'm not stupid." Dave defies "He'd NEVER say anything like that. Your guy's spot-on, voice-wise. Sounds just like Him. Can I get his contact info? Might wanna use Roger's nasty rasp for a few pranks of my own."

Roger silently pantomimes horselaugh convulsions, doubling over in parody of hilarity, fingerspelling 'D-U-M-B-F-U-C-K' while pretending to slap narrow knee with one hand and passing the phone back with the other.

[Was insult directed at Dave or ME?] "I'll e-mail it to you later. He truly IS great, isn't he?"

"Nearly had me goin' for a second, but you had him go too far. Thanks, mate, I needed a laugh today. Did you record it?"

"Of course." Pete assures, glorying in Roger's glare. [Hah! Scared it might get out? Maybe I got something good after all.]

"Send me a copy, yeah? That shit was RICH. Look..." insists Dave "...I'm kinda busy, so, nice to see you're still in fine fettle, but 'bye now, okay?"

Echoing "Okay. Thanks for playing." Pete disconnects before Dave does, rounding on Roger, ripping "What the fuck was THAT? You LIED to me!" [And got AWAY with it...all these years.]

"No, I didn't." Roger coolly contradicts "When you accused me of...attraction...I still hadn't come to terms with it, myself, so it WASN'T the truth to me...yet." He needs to know "Were YOU lying to claim you recorded it?"

"Nope. I record ALL my calls. What's it worth to you for me to keep such a salacious secret...and NOT send him that copy he wants?"

"Oh, go ahead. Gambled he'd take it for a gag, but I DIDN'T know he wouldn't even recognize The Real Me." delighted cackle erupts as Roger reaches into his jacket to pull out brand-new burner "Now I want to keep game going. Got a number right here you should send him, and can whip up a fake account double-quick."

"You'd get off on pretending to be an impersonator pretending to be you?"

"HELL, yes!" Roger laughs "DYING to learn what he wants my voice to utter for his pleasure. 'I'm not stupid.', indeed! THAT right THERE makes it almost worth the whole world learning what AYE just said." 

"Do you suppose he's ever had a clue about...us?" 

"Not unless YOU told him...in simple, vulgar words...when you were trying...un-SUCK-cessfully...to get his pants off." Roger stands and strides to take Pete into embrace, drily declaring "Not sure I much care to keep that secret any longer, anyway. Fanfiction's finally figured it out. Somewhat surprised it took so long for saucy scribblers...lascivious liner-notes junkies...to stick us together. We make a MUCH more interesting imaginary pair than most."

"You READ that silly stuff?" [Dare I admit I do, too?]

"I read everything about me."

"Summon some now..." Pete commands between kisses "...then read it to me. Your voice for my pleasure."


	4. Eve Of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Better late than never."...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helps to know 1965 Barry McGuire hit "Eve Of Destruction", composed by P.F. Sloan. Always loved that song, long wished either Pete or Roger would cover it, and find wise words especially fitting in Crazy Times.

"You didn't tell me HE was still here!" Daltrey balks at threshold in indignant freeze to behold Waters languidly looming hearthside, drumming insolent fingertips atop marble mantel.

"I didn't tell you he WASN'T, either." Pete smirks from sideline seat "You didn't ask."

Waters scowls "I DID ask that we remain alone, and you agreed. When the fuck did you invite your pet Monkey?"

Pete rolls baiting blue eyes, huffing "Honestly..."

"Fat chance." is irately interrupted from first Roger.

"What's your game?" simultaneously leaves lips of second bearing same name.

Both glare at Pete, each refusing to acknowledge the other has spoken.

Object of their mutual ire arises, amused, to scathingly scold "All right, that's enough! If you two can't Face The Face you can BOTH get out of my fucking house."

Mismatched set shares awareness that Pete...for once...is not playing.

"YOU'RE The Face." Daltrey grumbles, gaze glued to Pete's darkly determined visage. [Haven't seen THAT look lately...]

Waters knows this to be true, but also understands the reference in a manner Monkey never has. [The Ass, too. He set this up...well, watch me knock it down.] "It's not ME who CAN'T."

Pete does not utter the words "Prove it.", but they're clearly communicated in extant, expectant, exasperated expression.

Arranging his features from resentful reproach to cool civility, Waters eschews empty pleasantries. [It's NOT nice to see him, and I don't CARE how he's doing.] "I read your book."

"Really?" Monkey's surprised, and suspicious. "Why?"

[Trying to figure out who wrote it for you... Wasn't Pete.] "Prurient curiosity."

"Did you LIKE anything about it?" [Didn't find filthy facts you WANTED, creep? Bet Pete's already shared HIS side of explicit exploits.]

"The title. Naming your memoirs after horrid headmaster who said you'd never amount to anything was a ripping tribute."

Daltrey cautiously accepts this as a compliment, yet isn't certain it was meant as one. "Thanks. Hey, sorry about your tour." he awkwardly offers.

"Not half as sorry as AYE am." Waters sighs "America's a fucking police state these days, so they might NEVER allow another arena show. Since public performance of unpopular opinions is now officially forbidden, I guess the goddamn Slander Van has to go pounce on something ELSE to boycott."

This eludes Monkey's grasp, but Pete catches it easily and lobs backhanded barb. "If you're still hell-bent on courting martyrdom, maybe YOU should write a book."

"I don't kiss and tell." is replied with lofty disdain "Besides, I'm too busy writing SONGS."

"Oh, are you working on a new album?" Daltrey politely inquires.

"Do you really give a shit?"

"No." Monkey admits, bristling "I was TRYING to be nice, something YOU wouldn't understand."

"Watch it." Pete warns, and both Rogers again trot tandem retorts.

"Shut up." snarls Waters "You started it, so YOU watch it."

"Watch THIS!" Daltrey flips Pete an angry bird. "You two sick bastards DESERVE to be quarantined together, and whatever twisted sport you want with me is NOT gonna happen. Screw you BOTH."

"Now, THERE's an idea..." Pete mellowly muses, provoking vituperative duet of disgusted denial.

"NO!"

Confused to see icy enigma equally appalled, Daltrey gives his next words considerate attention.

"Don't blame ME." Waters' command comes off more like an appeal, however harshly handled. "I've NEVER wanted ANYthing to do with you, and I certainly don't NOW." He's entirely ignoring Pete, speaking sincerely, if savagely, straight into Daltrey's flustered face. "HE fucking knows that, he's just being a prick. You LET him make sport of you. You always have, but..." he hesitates before brief, weighty word which has never before encompassed the two of them "...we don't have to keep doing dipshit dance."

"What do you mean?" [Defying the Monster sometimes makes repercussions worse...surely he knows that? Maybe not, though. He's a bitter, brutal Beast, himself, so perhaps Pete doesn't dare push him how he does me...]

"I'm saying let's not squabble for his entertainment. Look..." [How to put this tactfully?] "...Roger..." Waters finds himself at uncharacteristic loss for words, managing only "We needn't be friends, but neither enemies...anymore."

[He said my name! That's a first. Should I say his back now?] "Well...Roger..." Daltrey defers "What can we do?"

"We can walk away...together...and get a drink." Waters decides, declaring "I'm sure we both know where he keeps the good stuff."

Pete's vexed with being discussed in (and feeling like) the third person in his own home, but assumes air of jaunty triumph "Magnificent! KNEW I could orchestrate a truce eventually."

"Put a sock in it." Waters snaps "You didn't do shit except try to START some, like always, and you're staying out of it now. We're going to share a conversation without you butting in, mouthing off or cutting up."

"If that's what you Really Want." Pete avers, acidly acquiescing, adding "Won't last long. I'll wait here until one of you storms off offended and the other comes back to bitch about my taste in men." he meanly mocks "Like always."

Neither Roger bites the bait, and Pete is astonished to watch them exit together without a backward glance. [What the hell just happened? Strange Days indeed...]

Waters and Daltrey wend winding way through corridors away from rehearsal room, stepping down stairs into spacious salon as guitar chords drift in their wake, proving Pete's promise to stay put.

"I can't believe he lets you talk to him like that." Monkey rummages bar-adjacent refrigerator, drawing out a pair of Angry Orchard longnecks and passing one on.

"That was LETTING?" Waters permits himself a self-effacing chuckle as he uncaps his cider. "He bit back pretty hard."

"That was EASY...for him." Daltrey shares, blurting bold inquiry "Wait, did he actually hurt you?"

Favoring brave initiative with simple honesty, Waters confesses "Yes. I've stormed off offended too many times over the years, and bitched about taste, too. Being reminded of that makes me feel small."

"You should hear some of the things he says to ME."

"I have. Can only imagine how much nastier it must get in private." [Oh, fuck, that came out wrong! He's gonna think I mean...]

Daltrey bursts out laughing "Don't think I haven't imagined the same about YOU...even if I didn't WANT to." [Oh, fuck, that came out wrong! He's gonna think I mean...]

"Sickman slip?" Waters snorts [Or does he actually want to discuss...?]

Nerd joke flies entirely over Monkey's curls. "What?"

"Never mind." Steering from sensitive subject, Waters jerks his head back toward stirring strum "Fairly fitting song, yeah?" 

Takes Daltrey a minute to tap into tune, but spontaneously sings once he recognizes it. "The Western world, it is explodin'..."

[Actual line says 'Eastern'. Is he being clever? Didn't know he could. He never sings when I'm around. Will he clam up if I try to harmonize?] Waters imbibes a slow swig and silently observes as Daltrey carries on.

"Violence flarin', bullets loadin'/ You're old enough to kill, but not for votin'/ You don't believe in war, but what's that gun you're totin'?" [Shit, can't remember the next line...]

Waters chimes in with a gravelly growl "And even the Jordan River has bodies floatin'..."

Picking back up, Daltrey joins him for the chorus, voices blending for the very first time.

"But you tell me over and over and over again, my friend/ Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction."

Monkey knows the next verse, so Waters lets him take it solo.

"Don't you understand what I'm tryin' to say?/ And can't you feel the fears that I'm feelin' today?/ If the button is pushed, there's no runnin' away/ There'll be no one to save with the world in a grave."

Both direct rueful gaze up at the ceiling (above which Pete may well have orchestrated this unusual unity) as they sing together.

"Take a look around you, Boy! It's bound to scare you, Boy!/ But you tell me over and over and over again, my friend/ You don't believe we're on the eve of destruction." 

Pete's still playing, but Daltrey's drawing a blank. Waters knows the next lines, though, and looses them in this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you tone torn twixt tirade and lament.

"Yeah, my blood's so mad, feels like coagulatin'/ I'm sittin' here, just contemplatin'/ I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulation/ Handful of Senators don't pass legislation/ And marches alone can't bring integration/ When human respect is disintegratin'/ This whole crazy world is just too frustratin'..."

Daltrey joins him again in haunting harmony.

"And you tell me over and over and over again my friend/ Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction."

Rogers regard one another solemnly, noting the music has stopped.

"There's another verse." Waters remarks.

"We came in late." defers Daltrey.

"Better late than never."

*****

[What could they be DOING down there? This is the longest they've EVER been together. Perhaps they're not... ONE of them has surely bolted back out into The Big Stupid by now, and the other's just too stubborn to face me.] Pete decides it's certainly his prerogative to investigate, and now shall do so. Approaching staircase landing, he's halted by unexpected yet familiar lustful hiss drifting up from below.

"Yessss..."

[What the FUCK?] 

"EeeeYAAH-ahhh!"

[I'VE elicited that rising wail from him, and Keith did, too, but WHY is he making it NOW? They're still together, and obviously having fun. Probably at my expense, since they couldn't POSSIBLY be...?]

Charging down the stairs, Pete spies Waters leaning up against walnut bar while Monkey sprawls head-down across chaise lounge, still making horny huff-n-puff noises which threaten to turn into giggles as both Rogers mark his descent.

"Very funny." Pete dryly acknowledges with air of smarmy superiority. "As if I'd EVER fall for that."

"Oh, look." Waters matches his tone perfectly, shockingly speaking to Daltrey, not Townshend. "It's the Superintendent of Social Distancing, making sure we've stayed six feet apart."

"Knock yourselves out." deadpans Pete "I've always imagined you'd look cute kissing." Identical revolted expressions crack him up as he crosses the room, laughing, to pluck the bottle from Waters' fingers before leaning in to lock lips, deliberately denoting the first occasion upon which he's initiated illicit intimacy in front of Daltrey.

[This might get weird. Well, who cares? It's MY house, after all, and we're on the eve of destruction. At least we're together...at last.]


	5. With Attitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate times call for desperate measures...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helps to know 1988 N.W.A hit "Fuck Tha Police".

"See, THIS, right HERE, is what I mean when I say it's GOT to be a put-on." Waters snarls, glaring at footage of Washington DC on CNN. "Cheek-by-jowl crowds THERE easily exceed capacity of a stadium show, but THOSE are still forbidden? If we don't see a DRASTIC spike in The Plague due to such failure to keep distance, we MUST admit it's not the looming horror threatened."

Pete is well aware his long-suffering beloved has the right of it, but nonetheless teases "Civil liberties, my love. Take away their right to 'peaceably assemble' and there'll be REAL riots, not just a spot of showing off."

Waters dryly remarks "Tom Leher said: 'Freedom of PLEASURE, which is NOT a right guaranteed by the Constitution, unfortunately.' Twats are prancing in the streets because it's the only form of public entertainment ALLOWED these days, not because they truly care about the cause."

Daltrey unexpectedly interjects "Hey, police brutality IS a real issue, and not just in America."

"Yes..." is delivered in condescending scold "...and birds go tweet." Waters paces angrily back and forth, flicking baleful glances at the television, working up into lecturing lather. "They should throw that murdering pig to the cawing crows and be done with it, but they won't, so we all have to suffer. If capital punishment were PUBLIC and IMMEDIATE, perhaps it actually WOULD be a deterrent, but-"

"But, nobody ever listens to you, do they?" Pete quips, hoping to derail impassioned engine from vengeful track.

"Well, now I see how to MAKE them!" Waters alights with inspiration "Free concert in Central Park, but call it a 'protest rally', so they can't stop me." He turns to take Pete's hands between his, beseeching "Come with me! Now is the time to deploy LIFEHOUSE tactics...audience immersion...they're ripe for it, and we could finally make them understand!"

Pete remembers how LIFEHOUSE had first been received when he himself had been burning to express unconventional concept, and echoes what was said to him "That's crazy. They WOULDN'T get it, they'd just howl for the hits."

Waters falls to his knees before Pete's imperious imperviousness, pressing fevered lips to folded fingers. "They're so starved for a good show, they might actually remember what we say. PLEASE, my love, can't we TRY?"

"No." Pete regretfully decrees "Angry young Americans don't need white English dinosaurs telling them how to feel right now. Somebody would shoot you."

"They'd better blow my head off." Waters resolutely declares, still kneeling and clutching Pete's hands desperately between his own "Because, otherwise, my name is Bob Marley and I will FINISH the show even with bullets in the flesh."

"I believe you." Pete sinks to the floor, pressing his head against Waters' and pulling one hand free to wrap around bowed back "But we CAN'T, even if you DO Really Want to die that way."

"Maybe YOU can't..." Waters stands up abruptly, shaking off connubial clutch and resisting urge to kick with boots as he does so with words "..but AYE can, and I'll do it alone if I have to."

Flinching before furious feet, Pete is formulating mitigating response when Monkey surprises them both.

"I'll do it. I've always wanted to sing 'Fuck Tha Police', and maybe I want a glorious death, too."

Pete is dumbstruck, but Waters finds scoff.

"YOU can't handle a tickle of pot smoke. How the FUCK do you expect to cope with tear gas?"

Disregarding belittling reference, Daltrey stands to approach Waters' furious stance, importuning "Dig it...I perform entirely covered, including gas mask with built-in mike, so nobody knows who I am...or what color... then they can't say it's racist to sing the song EXACTLY as it's written."

"I don't even KNOW all the words to 'Fuck Tha Police', and ethnic American crowd would DEFINITELY murder me for even speaking the unabbreviated name of the group who wrote it." Waters regards Daltrey with wide-eyed awe, challenging "YOU'd have to ring them up and get the rights."

"If I do..." Monkey bravely faces dangerous dance "... what remains of N.W.A. might be moved to come sing it with us. If I can make THAT happen, will you let me be in your show?"

Waters can't help but admit "That would be awesome. Mysterious, masked singer with a familiar voice and presence doing a song NOBODY would suspect but that fits the bill beautifully?" [Whoa, he DOES have a pair. Did he only just grow them?]

Sure they MUST be joking, Pete protests "So, I get to watch you both die from penthouse suite at The Plaza?"

Waters knows how song starts, and intones toward Daltrey "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help your black ass?"

Monkey proudly proclaims "You goddam right!", delighted to hear proper callback from Waters.

"Well, won't you tell everybody what the fuck you got to say?" [Oh, this could WORK...make him say 'Good Morning, The Worm, Your Honor' first.]

Strutting and pontificating in a manner Pete has never before beheld from bandmate, Daltrey rips righteous rap "They have the authority to kill a minority? Fuck that shit 'cause I ain't the one for a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun!"

"Neither of you would DARE!" Pete doesn't know this song, and feels left out that they do, but can tell it would be in poor taste. [Wasn't aware he COULD rap, nor that he wants to.]

"Oh, I WOULD." Waters promises "I'll hang my naked face out, even, and sing along with masked Monkey."

"Please don't call me 'Monkey'." Daltrey defensively defects [Onstage or ever again] "That WOULD get you shot."

"Do you even know HOW to get ahold of Dr. Dre and company these days?" demands Waters imperiously.

Daltrey's impressed Waters can place N.W.A.'s producer, and proudly proclaims "I think he'd take my call."

"Make it, then." is issued in domineering decree "I'll ring up an old friend with a pilot's license to take us to New York straightaway, once you convince posse to play."

Pete is no longer entirely sure whether or not they're screwing with him, experiencing strange sensation of being the odd man out. Suddenly, he feels very old.

"You kids and your nasty new music..."

"Get with the times, Mum." chuckles Daltrey, tipping Waters a wink.


	6. Black Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old men with new music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bob Dylan's new album ROUGH AND ROWDY WAYS knocks me out, and the track "Black Rider" kept evoking thoughts of Roger Waters. Splendid song's been obsessively haunting for days. Now that I've foisted earworm words on all of you, maybe I can shake off Zimmy's pensive poem and get back to my more popular stuff.

"Black rider, black rider, you've been living too hard/ Been up all night, have to stay on your guard/ The path that you're walking, too narrow to walk/ Every step of the way, another stumbling block/ The road that you're on, same road that you know/ Just not the same as it was a minute ago." Monkey's voice is a mournful rasp, accompanied by Pete's slow strum, reaching Roger's sleep-deprived mind through exhausted ears.

[They're working. Don't know this one. Perhaps I'm not meant to hear it, but it's exactly how I feel...] Loath to interrupt, Roger lurks, listening.

"Black rider, black rider, you've seen it all/ You've seen the great world and you've seen the small/ You fell into the fire and you're eating the flame/ Better seal up your lips if you wanna stay in the game/ Be reasonable, Mister, be honest, be fair/ Let all of your earthly thoughts be a prayer."

[Magnificent. Rather a tidier rhyme scheme than he usually uses. Hits home hard. Am I courting martyrdom, after all? Is 'the game' even worth playing anymore?]

Daltrey watches Waters wending, wraithlike, into rehearsal room and sings the next lines directly toward curious countenance. "Black rider, black rider, all dressed in black/ I'm walking away, you try to make me look back/ My heart is at rest, I'd like to keep it that way/ I don't wanna fight, at least not today/ Go home to your wife, stop visiting mine/ One of these days, I'll forget to be kind."

[What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Have I worn out my welcome?]

Pete regally regards Roger's questing visage while Monkey's soulful serenade continues.

"Black rider, black rider, tell me when, tell me how/ If there ever was a time, then let it be now/ Let me go through, open the door/ My soul is distressed, my mind is at war/ Don't hug me, don't flatter me, don't turn on the charm/ I'll take a sword and hack off your arm."

[Cutting and cold. Brutal, but beautiful. Where did THIS come from?] Roger is aware Monkey's gaze remains upon him, but he himself has eyes only for Pete as the final verse unfolds.

"Black rider, black rider, hold it right there/ The size of your cock will get you nowhere/ I'll suffer in silence, I'll not make a sound/ Maybe I'll take the high moral ground/ Some enchanted evening I'll sing you a song/ Black rider, black rider, you've been on the job too long."

Pensively plucking closing chords, Pete's fingers finally fall still although his mind races to decipher Roger's reaction. [He's moved, but seems confused...almost wounded.]

"What are you saying?" Waters whispers, woefully wondering.

[Ha! Mistook the words for mine. Rattled his cage, too. Hmmm, come to think of it, lyrics loom large...Let's keep him guessing.] "What do you hear?"

"Resignation and condemnation." Roger sighs, searching fine features he's loved for so long, fearing the worst. "Warning of rejection."

"You don't like it?" Pete maintains grave expression with great effort, strictly suppressing smile.

"You know it's perfect." [Even if it does break my heart, hearing hardness of yours.] "How long have you been sitting on that one?"

"It's brand-new." is delivered in icy deadpan, cruel cerulean irises betraying no trace of tease. "Just dropped on Friday."

Waters blurts "You've already RELEASED it? Why couldn't you tell me first?"

Catching on, Monkey disrupts mean mind-game with raucous crow of mirth. "You think PETE wrote that? He WISHES!"

"Well, who DID, then?" Quietly thankful for reprieve, one Roger offers sincere compliment to the other. "It really suits your current voice."

"Thanks. It's my favorite off Zimmy's new record. Been wanting to sing it all week. Hard to believe he's even older than us, huh?"

"Zimmy?" Waters' brow furrows in attempt to place unfamiliar name.

"Bob Dylan." Pete loftily informs "We've called him that ever since 'Gotta Serve Somebody', in which he told us we can." Somehow managing to simultaneously scowl at Daltrey for spoiling the joke and smirk at Waters, who fell for it, he quips "Dammit, Monkey, I had him goin'. Almost made him cry."

It's taken Daltrey a bit longer to arrive at unspoken undercurrent. Now that he gets it, grin becomes guffaw before saucy segue into Carly Simon croon, pointing mocking forefinger at Waters' flushed, flustered face.

"You're so vain. You prob'ly think this song is about you."


	7. Bahama Mama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ripped from the headlines...

"Roger!" Pete's imperious intonation carries clearly across the hall. "Get in here and explain this to me, immediately."

Daltrey sighs, loath to swap convivial companionship of the devil he barely knows for cold condescension of the one with whom he is fiercely familiar. Although nothing much surprises him anymore, he continues to be amazed at what a calmly clever comrade Waters has become in these Crazy Times. He knows neither composer thinks very highly of his own intelligence, but he's always been bright enough to get what they see in each other. Long ago, brilliant bond between them had felt like a threat. These days, though, he's grateful for the presence of somebody Pete cannot bully or boss.

"What's his problem NOW?" Waters mildly muses.

"Oh, who knows? He prob'ly thinks I did something stupid..." Daltrey desultorily declares "...which is EVERYTHING he didn't orchestrate."

As Daltrey starts to arise from cozy fireside seat, Waters commands "Stay. Make HIM come to YOU, if he wants an explanation so bloody badly."

"He'll just keep yelling."

Punctuating point, Pete shouts, sounding shocked "Sixteen MILLION U.S. dollars? Are you INSANE?"

Waters wryly remarks "He's talking to ME." With haughty huff, he decrees "This business of you and I having the same name is becoming an aggravation. In light of ongoing alliance, however, 'Monkey' no longer feels appropriate. What's your middle name?"

"Harry, but don't call me that."

"Why ever not? YOU rose to prominence well before either Harry Potter or Prince Harry were household names."

"Well, Harry Potter had it pretty rough, but I wish I WAS Prince Harry."

"Really? What's he got that you don't? Inbred hothouse pansies, ALL the royals. You're richer AND better looking than that ginger git."

"His wife's gorgeous." Daltrey deflects unexpected flattery. "I sure wouldn't mind tapping THAT."

"Ugh." Waters rolls his eyes, launching lecture. "When will we stop evaluating a man's success by the beauty of 'his' woman? Downright Neanderthalic, it is. No wonder women still get away with calling us pigs. I TRY to be part of the solution, yet cannot avoid the disgusting double standard of acceptable sexism."

Both Rogers are well aware Pete's hearing is shot to shit, so there's no way he could've caught that, so next belligerent bellow must be either sheer coincidence or another example of otherworldly intuition.

"You dirty old dog, you're doing it for pussy! As if a woman like HER would ever want YOU."

Smirking, Waters enjoys the discombobulation Daltrey displays. His own aural perception remains sterling, and he discerns the creak of rolling chair being pushed backward from computer desk as Pete prepares to join them.

Daltrey really wants to ask what the hell is going on, but knows all will be revealed soon enough, so instead asks a more banal question on (what he hopes is) a safer subject. "What's YOUR middle name, then?"

"It's Roger."

"His first name is George." Pete informs from the doorway, scathing sight sweeping setting of the two (living) men he loves best in the world seated in identical armchairs before a crackling hearth. [All I wanted for decades was for them to get along, but now that they ARE, I'm not sure how well I like it.] "Perhaps I'll have to start calling you 'Prince Harry' and 'King George' to avoid the whole 'Roger' confusion."

"I can work with that." Waters mellowly allows, adding acidly "Now, what's got you so all-fired frothy about my recent acquisition?"

"You bought an ISLAND?"

"I did. What's it to YOU?"

"With SHAKIRA?" Pete probes pensively, pacing into the room.

"That's right. I reiterate: Why is this so shocking?"

"Well, mostly because you're HERE with us and not THERE...with her."

"SHE's not there, either..." Roger remains sanguine "...or I likely WOULD be."

"I wasn't aware you even KNEW her, much less considered her admittedly fine behind worth sixteen MILLION dollars." Pete sneers, striving for a rise "Have you finally grown so decrepit you need to PAY for female attention?"

"It's her money, too. We are embarking together on a joint venture, which I'm sure whatever entertainment news site you were perusing made quite clear."

"What's 'quite clear' is that you're trying to fuck her."

Waters permits himself a slightly salacious leer. "I'm succeeding. THAT was going on well before we decided to pool our resources toward a mutual vision, and is an entirely...okay, MOSTLY... unrelated fact."

"A fact you neglected to share with ME?"

"Ah, THAT's your problem. The internet knew something about me before you did. Look, we both know if I'd tried mentioning this prospect to you, you'd have acted like I was trying to solicit contributions, then gone all doom-and-gloom about what a stupid idea it is." Waters sighs "Which I'm sure you'll do now. Very well, I'm ready for my abuse, Mister Demille."

Daltrey has been taking this all in, and now interjects incredulously "You and Shakira have a 'mutual vision'? What are you planning, and where IS this island, anyway?"

Pete was not the one asked, but it's he who answers. "The Bahamas. They intend to build an 'Artists' Retreat', if you can believe THAT." Regard shifting from one Roger back to the other, he snorts at Waters "Never figured YOU for the Happy Hippie type." 

"I'm still a cold-hearted Capitalist," Waters proclaims, unperturbed. "It won't be a bloody COMMUNE. I've an eye toward carving out a new tourist destination. High-end and high-concept...like everything I do."

Pete sniffs "Over-the-top and beyond the pale...like everything you do. I predict an absolute trainwreck. Can't WAIT to watch you tearing out your hair."

"At least I still HAVE mine."

"Hey, I think it's a GREAT idea!" Daltrey declares, asking "Can I make a contribution? How much to get my name on an orgy suite?"

"Fifty thousand pounds." is Waters' swiftly deadpan decision, prompting Daltrey's immediate agreement.

"Done. Can't wait to hear about goings-on in the Roger Daltrey Room."

Watching them stretch across the gap between their chairs to shake hands, Pete snaps irritably "They'll call it The Monkey House. Don't fucking encourage this pipe-dream, Prince Harry. You're just trying to get my goat by pretending to care."

"What, I'm not ALLOWED to be interested in an Artists' Retreat? Bite me, Birdman!" Daltrey chuckles "You're just mad YOU didn't think of it first... or maybe that Queen Shakira would rather play with King George than with YOU. It's no lookout of YOURS how EITHER of us spend our money."

"YOU..." Pete glares at Daltrey "...wouldn't HAVE a fortune to foolishly squander if it weren't for MY lifetime of labor. And YOU..." he rakes Waters with spiteful sneer "...have no idea how ridiculous this makes you look. She's half your age, which you HAVE to realize turns the entire endeavor into a walking joke."

"Takes one to know one." Waters ripostes, unruffled "She's fucking FORTY, Pete. I'm hardly robbing the cradle. Shit on this all you like, asshole, but I'm gonna have some FUN while I'm unable to tour."

"You'll never be able to keep a woman like that interested. She'll be banging beefcake backup dancers behind your back."

"While our...relationship... is certainly NOT purely professional, it is neither exclusive nor possessive."

"What on Earth could a juicy jujube like her possibly want with a dried-up old dick like yours?"

" 'He jests at scars that never felt a wound.' " Waters serenely quotes Shakespeare before continuing in his own words. "Feel free to ASK her. Perhaps the two of you could compare notes."

Realizing he's not likely to roil placid Waters, Pete determines to try embarrassing him. "Well, there's ONE thing I've had from you... several times... that she could NEVER get."

"Oh, don't be so sure about that. They make..." Waters draws out the next word, dripping with salacious suggestion "...wonnnnderrrfullll prosthetics these days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I was being pranked when a friend told me "Roger Waters and Shakira just bought an island for sixteen million dollars with a view to turning it into an Artists' Retreat.", then went deliriously apeshit to learn that's totally TRUE! Ohh, the exquisite fanfiction possibilities! Now I wanna do a whole future-history arc about what their place will be like when completed. Everybody who's ANYBODY would want to visit, so it could be RICH with cameos...


End file.
